


On My Honour

by Evandar



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossdressing, Laufey has a Plan, Loki Gives Advice, Loki Had a Plan, M/M, Marriage, Plans Change, Thor Had a Plan, intersex jotnar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 00:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1724534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor's wedding to Thrym of Jotunheim goes a little differently than planned. For a start, it doesn't end in murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On My Honour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'Marriage' on my Trobe Bingo card, and based off the Norse myth (at least, the beginning of it) as well as a Kink Meme prompt that I've long lost the link to.

He has the feeling that something isn’t going quite right. 

The dress is uncomfortable. The soft cushions held in place at his front are awkward to negotiate – he had never realised just how much Sif had to compensate for them in her movements – and the veil pinned carefully over his face and hair is stopping him from eating as much of the delicious-looking feast as he would like. His best attempt at eating had brought a comment from the giant he was supposed to be marrying.

“The Lady has a healthy appetite,” he’d said.

Loki had smiled. “Lady Freya has not eaten for seven days for anticipation of coming here,” he’d said, and he’d kicked Thor hard in the ankle.

His brother has done that twice since, offering excuses for Thor’s drinking and the fierceness of his eyes, each time lashing out unseen under the table. He is talking sweetly to another of the giants, leaning in and smiling in a way that makes Thor feel awkward. His brother is flirting, and is entirely too comfortable in his disguise.

Fandral’s suggestions that Loki might be ergi are looking as though they may be true.

He drags his gaze away when Loki leans in flirtatiously, and turns to study his future husband instead. At first glance, Thrym Naljarson was as vile to look upon as any Frost Giant: blue and vast, and covered in strange markings. Now – and it may be the wine talking; the clear liquid he has been served is potent and making his head swim – he is beginning to notice other things. His would-be husband is actually relatively slight for a Frost Giant, leanly muscled, and with fine-boned hands that flutter in the air as he talks. His smile reminds Thor eerily of his brother, something that makes his stomach churn from nerves – when Loki smiles like that, it never means anything good.

He reaches for his goblet, only for a hand to land on his wrist. He stiffens and tries to jerk back – everyone knows that Frost Giants burn with their touch – but long fingers tighten with surprising strength, and he realises that though the touch is cool, he is not burning at all.

“Best not to drink too much, Lady,” a voice says. “You wouldn’t want to make yourself sick on your wedding night.”

The thought of a wedding night makes Thor want to be sick, but he keeps that to himself. It is Thrym’s sister speaking to him, he realises. Or, at least, he assumes it is his sister. The Jotun looks as male as any of the others, save for the round swell of her pregnant belly. Jade gauntlets decorate her wrists and calves, and a strange crown that looks like back-pointing horns rests upon her head; she is dressed in what appears to be a red silk skirt that falls to her ankles, but is split to reveal the length of her legs, and nothing else – revealing the markings that cover her masculine torso.

Loki’s foot nudges Thor’s ankle again, and he sighs. “No,” he says grudgingly.

That same, Loki-ish smile spreads across the sister’s face as well. “Come with me,” she says. “It is time to take these rings from your fingers so that you might leave your old life behind.”

She tugs and Thor follows meekly. He’s out of his depth. Not for the first time, he wishes he were as intelligent or as well-read as his brother. The things he knows about Frost Giants amount to how best to kill them and why they deserve such a fate – it has not left him at all well-prepared for this.

He follows Thrym’s sister into a dressing chamber. The ice of its walls and furniture are extravagantly carved, and as he watches, stairs leading to the chair grow from the icy floor. “Please, sit,” the Frost Giant says.

Thor climbs the stairs shakily and seats himself on a fur throw that has been laid over the chair. The Frost Giant picks up his hand again and gently – he hadn’t known they could be gentle – starts to remove his rings. “You can remove the veil as well, if you wish, Thor Odinson,” she says. “It would be easier to have this conversation face-to-face.”

Thor freezes for a moment. How? But then he clears his throat. “I am Lady Freya,” he says.

The Frost Giant snorts with laughter. “Hardly,” she says. “The Allfather doesn’t marry his hostages to his enemies.” When Thor opens his mouth to argue – Lady Freya is no hostage! – she continues. “The Lady Freya may have made Asgard her home, but she remains a hostage to ensure the peace treaty you hold with Vanaheim. Has he taught you nothing?”

Thor’s mouth snaps shut. He knows from his histories that Lady Freya had come to live with them after the war with Vanaheim had ended, and he knows that she is Vanir…he just hadn’t put the two together. He raises his hand and tugs the veil from his head. 

“Why go along with it then?”

“Because you are a far greater prize, Odinson. What do you think your father would give for your safe return? For the annulment of your _shameful_ marriage? It would take much to make my people forget that you once were bride to a Jotun…”

Thor closes his eyes briefly, trying not to think of what being ‘bride to a Jotun’ will entail. “My father will bring war, not the Casket,” he says.

“I don’t think so,” the Frost Giant replies. “Your father is cruel, true, but war-weary, and he will seek a continuation of our peace treaty over open war.”

“You speak as if you know him.”

The Frost Giant laughs. “Did you not learn anything about the one you were to wed? Or his kin? Or did you just throw yourself into this without thinking?” She smiles that wicked, Loki-ish smile, bearing the points of her sharp teeth. “I am Laufey, King of Jotunheim, and well do I know your father.”

…

The ceremony goes surprisingly smoothly. Were it not for his brother’s pale face, hovering just in the limit of his vision, and the dress that still falls around his ankles – the pillows, thankfully, were removed along with the rings – he might have been able to forget that this was a ruse. That he was meant to slay the Jotun he has wed instead, take back Mjolnir, and return to Asgard in triumph. Instead he is wed to the brother of King Laufey, surrounded by members of his court; unarmed and unaided even by Loki, who – for all his tricks and cunning – cannot see a way out. Not when Thor made his vows as _Thor_ and not Freya.

And when it is done, Thor rises from his chair on shaking legs. He is the bride of a Jotun now. He knows what comes next, though he cannot bear to imagine it. Slight he may be for one of his kind, Thrym is still nearly twice Thor’s height.

He finds himself being escorted away, to a different chamber than the one Laufey had spoken to him in. It is more elaborately furnished – still in ice, as everything is – but more intricately carved. Delicate shapes whorl down the legs of the enormous bed and across the ceiling, catching the moonlight that filters in through the window and filling Thor with nausea.

He hadn’t thought he could find anything beautiful here. He doesn’t want to find anything beautiful here. He wants to return to Asgard where things are simpler.

He can’t. Thrym – his _husband_ \- is watching him.

“I know little of Asgard’s customs in such things,” Thrym says after a moment, “so I must ask if you have lain with another male before.”

 _“No,”_ Thor replies, momentarily horrified at the thought and curious all at once. His brother had managed, whispering in his ear during a last embrace, to impart _advice_ on such matters – something which, now that Thor was forced to think about it – raised more questions about Loki than he cared to ask.

Realising, however, that his dismissal might have been too harsh, he clears his throat and looks away. “Such a thing would be… It isn’t done, on Asgard. Or if it is, it is kept secret out of fear of discovery.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Thrym nod. Strange as it might be, the Jotun’s understanding only makes him feel worse rather than more secure. He came here planning _murder_.

“I know nothing of your people, save from the war stories I was told as a child,” he admits. “Be… gentle?”

…

There is no amount of gentility that will stop the burn of being stretched so wide, though Thrym tries. He murmurs soothing words and massages the straining muscles in Thor’s thighs; he is making a rumbling noise, low in his chest, which throbs and hums through Thor’s entire body. Though the words and the deep, throbbing noise are oddly calming – hypnotic, almost – it is only his brother’s last, hastily whispered advice to _“relax, Thor, and remember to keep breathing”_ that helps at all.

Slowly, though, he does begin to relax. Thrym’s fingers are long and almost delicate for a Jotun, and they are wickedly clever. His cock, when finally Thor is breached, is so large that when he glances down at himself, he can see it pressing into him through his belly. But he is gentle and kind; he waits for Thor to adjust to everything he does, purring constantly.

And when Thor is relaxed…oh, but it feels incredible.

He loses track of himself. He is vaguely aware of pleading words spilling between them into the cold air. Thrym’s markings are flushed black – vibrant against the cobalt of his skin – and they are raised lines under Thor’s hands when he reaches out desperately to cling on. Everything feels so intense. Thrym inside of him, the pelts under his back, the air that chills the sweat on his skin. All of it underlined by that low purr vibrating through them both.

When it is done, Thrym pulls furs over them both. He still purrs, and Thor finds comfort in that; he slides closer to his husband until he is pressed to his side with his head resting on his chest.

“Thank you,” he says.

Thrym chuckles softly. It’s a nice laugh, surprisingly fond. “You granted me the honour of your body, son of Asgard. I would not disrespect such a gift.” His fingers card lightly through Thor’s hair, then follow the curve of his spine down to his tender arse. “Should this union ever be granted time to grow, I would expect the same of you.”

Thor blinks. The thought that this marriage would be anything _but_ annulled immediately in return for the Casket hadn’t ever crossed his mind. He knows that it is Laufey’s plan, just as he knows it is the only option that his father will accept. That Thrym could hope otherwise is…a surprise. Unsettling.

Warming. 

Thrym is possibly the warmest thing on all of Jotunheim, or at least, that is how he seems to Thor in that moment. He presses a little closer. 

“It would be my honour,” he says.


End file.
